


Thread of Gold

by InMediasRes



Series: String of Fate [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Christmas, Everybody Lives, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, References to Depression, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28304046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMediasRes/pseuds/InMediasRes
Summary: Quentin Coldwater is a first year student at Brakebills University for the Creative Arts.Cue Eliot Waugh (the most attractive student on campus), pining, parties, a little of Taylor Swift and, if Quentin's lucky, maybe a side of love?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: String of Fate [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076294
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	Thread of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! I'm new to the fandom (only just finished the show a couple of weeks ago), and boy did it break me. So here I am, with a sort-of Christmas fic, because I badly need a happy ending. Also, this fic was partly inspired by a Queliot playlist I created myself after I finished the show because I really needed it (I'm happy to share it if people are interested).
> 
> I apologise if the characters are a little OOC, but this is an AU, so um. I tried. Please forgive me in advance.
> 
> I own nothing in this fic (lyrics, characters, or otherwise). If I missed a tag, please let me know!
> 
> Anyway, Merry Christmas (It's 2.30am where I am, so it is officially Christmas Day)! Here's my little Christmas gift for this fandom <3

* * *

Eliot stepped into his favourite café, brushing his curls to the side off his face. Spotting his absolute favourite person in the entire world at their usual table, he stepped up to the empty chair and flopped onto it (gracefully, he might add).

“Margo, please tell me the week is over,” he huffs, unravelling the scarf around his neck.

The woman sitting across from him raises a perfectly arched brow and takes a slow sip of her coffee before replying. “It’s only Monday.”

Eliot sighs as he sweeps an errant curl from his face and grabs the other cup of coffee. Ah, a caramel latte, just how he likes it. “Not the answer I was looking for, but thank you.”

They both turn to watch the patrons of the café for a few minutes, mostly filled with students from Brakebills University for the Creative Arts. It was well known across campus that this was the best café around, and many a student would come here when they were stressed, or looking to unwind, or to savour the last taste of freedom before the semester started. This was where Eliot and Margo liked to go on the day of the entrance exams to observe the influx of new students. It seemed they had picked a slow day this year though; a lot of the students they were seeing were returning ones, some of them even giving them both a smile in greeting before joining the never ending queue.

“What time are you to meet your prospective student?”

A quick glance at the clock on the far side of the wall showed Eliot he had an hour to kill before needing to meet Dean Fogg for his name card. “I can spare forty five minutes before I need to head back for my card.”

Margo gives a sharp grin, nodding knowingly. “You’ll tell me if they’re cute?”

“Always, Bambi.”

It was also well known across campus that Eliot and Margo, the reigning Party King and Queen of Brakebills, liked to share sexual partners every so often. It was no matter; it was an honour to be picked up by them, even if the clingy ones turned out to be a slight annoyance.

They spent the rest of the remaining time in the café, catching up and observing. When it was time to go, Eliot rewrapped his scarf around and slipped on his coat, picking up his now empty cup to put in the bin. Giving Margo a brief kiss on the lips, he murmurs a quick “See you back at the Cottage” before leaving.

The air was a bit chilly, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He actually liked the sound of the crunch of frost on the ground as he walked, giving a few nods here and there to the students he recognised. He met Dean Fogg at his office, where he was handed a small white card with a name on it, which he just pocketed with a roll of his eyes. He didn’t know why Fogg insisted on having the upper years show prospective students to the exam hall. What was wrong with the normal way of doing things, like having sign posts that pointed the way? Or just saying on their website that the exams took place in Hall B or whatever? Surely that would be an important piece of information to include on their audition letters?

Eliot sighed as he leaned against the stone wall of the university’s sign, going against all his training and lighting a cigarette. The situation required it, he thinks. He knew he was getting some stares; with his curly hair he artfully styles every day, his excellent taste in fashion (he straightens his vest to smooth out the non-existent creases), and his miles of legs, Eliot Waugh knew he was a sight to behold. And no matter who his prospective is, he knew he was going to wow them. Speaking of which… His prospective was late. The exam was going to start any minute now, and they would miss their chance to attend the greatest Creative Arts school in New York.

* * *

Quentin was running very late. He’d had a panic attack just when he was leaving the apartment, and Julia had had to talk him down from it. Their auditions were today, and he had planned to leave the apartment early to get there in time. He had wanted to account for the subway times, and the walking distance, and to get a coffee, and the amount of time it would take to psych himself up to even walk into the audition. As it was, he didn’t have time to do any of that, which is how he ended up stumbling through the gates of Brakebills like a new-born deer, blinking at the sheer majestic building in front of him. A part of him felt guilty for making Julia late to her exam and audition too, but he was suddenly overwhelmed with the sight of the main building on campus. Julia patted his arm in equal parts comfort and understanding before kissing him on the cheek and waving a goodbye, making her way to her division on campus. He’d make it up to her later with dinner.

Quentin was so busy staring at his surroundings that he almost missed him; his long, long legs was the first thing that caught his eyes (and God, okay, that was. They were really something), before his eyes landed on the – _gorgeous_ – face smoking a cigarette with an elegance Quentin could only dream of. He halts to a stop in front of him, because it looks like he had been waiting for Quentin, and continues to watch him as the man straightens, seeming to unfold and _dear lord_ he was. He was tall. Quentin had to tilt his head back a bit to be able to look at his eyes (he was mildly aware that he was staring with his mouth open and _for goodness sake Q, get it together_ ).

The man lifts up a white card to read before looking back at him, an almost-judging expression on his face as he questions, “Quentin C _oldwater_?” like his name was fake, which. Okay. That was fair, it does sound fake. Quentin gives a nod, a faint “Uh huh…?” leaving his mouth like an exhalation as the man steps up closer so they were almost touching.

“I’m Eliot.” The man – _Eliot_ , Quentin’s brain helpfully supplies, which yes, _thank you_ _brain_ – introduces himself as he drags his eyes down Quentin’s frame before meeting his eyes again, making Quentin supress a shiver. _God_. “You’re late. Follow me.”

Quentin can do nothing but follow – _those legs_ – as they lead him to, presumably, his entrance exam (he briefly wonders which discipline Eliot is in). He is led in silence, trying _very hard_ not to stare at. Well, at Eliot. Down there. In front of him. _Jesus_. He almost stumbles into his back has he pauses at a door, opening it and ushering him in. Before Quentin could even thank him for bringing him to his exam, Eliot is already out the door, a small quirk to his lips as he tilts his head at Quentin right before the door closes. He’s pretty sure his brain has just short-circuited. Shaking his head to clear it, he gulps as he faces the room full of examinees sitting in rows, spotting the one empty chair at the back. He settles into it, his legs feeling shakier than before, and takes his bag and jacket off as the examiner introduces themselves and how the exam and following auditions would be laid out. Quentin chews on his pen as the written part of the entrance exam finally starts, allowing all the ambient noise of papers shuffling to fade into the background as he flips open his booklet.

* * *

A week later saw Quentin and Julia moving into the first year dorms of Brakebills. They had both, somehow, made the cut and were ecstatic to be official students of the prestigious conservatoire. Julia could not stop talking about her roommate, Kady, and if Quentin wasn’t so secure about his friendship with Julia, he’d be jealous (as it stands, Julia had been there during his Really Bad Months, and he had been there during her James Period). On the other hand, he _was_ jealous that Julia was lucky enough to have landed a completely cool and bearable roommate while Quentin was stuck with a _total ass_ of a guy named Penny. Who he was absolutely sure could read his mind sometimes. And was definitely, one hundred percent, fucking Kady. He wonders in the back of his mind how hot they look together, but immediately shuts that image down before Penny could somehow read exactly what he was thinking, and wouldn’t that be a disaster?

He’s just glad Penny was currently out as it left him some time to his own to relax and read a Fillory book after the busy week he had had. He was just getting settled into his favourite chapter when Eliot walks in, followed by a petite brunette who was. Wow. Seriously, _was this his life now_? Was he to forever be surrounded by gorgeous people who were _completely out of his league_?

“Hi, I’m Margo,” she introduces herself, smirking lightly as she looks him over. “This is him,” she hums, catching his tie. “He’s not that cute.” Which – what? His eyes shoot to Eliot, who only gestures in an apologetic-but-not-really kind of way. Had Eliot talked about him? Before he could think of a reply, he's being dragged out of his room for a tour of campus, his book left forgotten on his bedside table.

The campus is great, really great. But Quentin couldn’t help being distracted by the way Margo talked, or the way Eliot walked. These two were so self-assured, so confident – they made a striking pair, and they knew it. Quentin couldn’t help being sucked into their gravitational pull as they explained how first years had the dorms until they were taken in by a mentor, an upperclassman, which meant they would eventually move out and into the building of whichever discipline their mentor was in (turns out Eliot’s discipline was ballet, which was really obvious now in the way he held himself and – _that_ was an image he did not need, _thank you very much_ – Margo was majoring in theatre). Typically, mentors didn’t pick their first years until after the semester’s first showcase, which was already only a few weeks away (Quentin tried to convince himself he was _not_ nervous about it, even if his brain couldn’t stop thinking about it at a hundred miles per hour). But Margo and Eliot had made it clear that they were planning to take Quentin on, which. Well. How could he say no to that? For perhaps the second time in his life (the first being when he became friends with Julia), Quentin found that he was capable of making friends on his own, and he actually really liked their company, all looks aside.

He would often find himself splitting his time between his classes, having dinner and catch-ups with Julia, and then spending the rest of his evening in The Cottage, Eliot and Margo’s building that they very obviously ran together seamlessly. And this is where things got a bit tricky; Quentin found himself unable to stop staring at Eliot. At his curls, or his hazel-green eyes speckled with gold, or his nimble hands whenever he was mixing a drink. He had to try really hard not to stare at his miles of legs, and he was determined _not_ to stare at his ass. They were friends, and Quentin really did not want to lose that over a crush that had suddenly crept up on him in the days that followed. But the thing was – and this is the real kicker here – _the thing was_ , Eliot was just so fucking kind. Oh sure, he acted aloof and disdainful to others in the Cottage, but he was really gentle around Margo; dropping pet names and kisses and hugs like. Well, like they were soulmates. Or something. Quentin wasn’t entirely sure what their story was, but. He really enjoyed watching Eliot relaxing, and letting go, and laughing freely with Margo. He felt like it was a rare side of Eliot that probably only Margo had ever seen. Until now. Now, Quentin had somehow been accepted into their bubble, and he had no bloody idea how he had gotten there.

Sometimes he wondered; sometimes he’d catch Eliot looking at him with unreadable eyes, or he’d wrap an arm around Q’s shoulders and pull him close to his side, or, when it was just the two of them with no Margo in sight, he’d go soft. He’d hug Q delicately, like he was afraid of breaking him, or his eyes would go slightly dark in the dim lights strung around the common room as he sipped on a glass of wine – and here, Quentin had to wonder, he really did – before he’d go back to teasing Q and topping up his glass for him. Sometimes, on the rare occasion when he would actually sleep in his dorm and not over at the Cottage, he would lay on his back thinking about what that meant, what it _could_ mean, before shoving the thought from his mind as fast as it would appear. _What were they doing?_

He wished he knew.

* * *

The end of September was already creeping up on the first years, and with that, the first showcase of the year. Though this was not as big as the Winter or the Spring showcase, it was still an important one as this was when the first years would be picked by their mentors. Julia and Q had promised that they’d be there at each other’s show, front seat in the audience, showing their support for the other as always. Q had helped Julia prepare her piece (an interesting short film about nights in New York), and he couldn’t wait to see the final edit of it. He hoped someone decent would pick her out, someone who was as in awe of her talent and enthusiasm for film as he was. He could only hope he wouldn’t disappoint Eliot with his show. Or Margo.

As he joined the queue outside the Film Studies building, the pair appeared with an extra cup of coffee for him, which he took gladly. He took a hasty sip when he saw that soft, almost shy look in Eliot’s eyes, and then promptly choked at how hot the beverage was. _Christ_. He stuck his tongue out into the chilly night as he tried not to look at Eliot’s fond expression, instead catching Margo’s eye roll and flushing at how much of an awkward embarrassment he was. Not looking at either of them in the eye, he made sure to gently blow on his coffee before taking more careful sips as they were led to their seats at the front.

Julia’s film was truly mind blowing. She had managed to capture the essence of New York perfectly; the hustle and bustle of traffic at night, the sound of rain on empty pavements, the few and far between silences that were deafening in light of everything else. Maybe he was a bit biased, but Quentin thinks her film was the best tonight. And she was clearly happy about it, almost glowing as she introduced Pete as her mentor, a fourth year Film student who was interested in directing and would be graduating after this year. Quentin couldn’t have been prouder of his best friend.

The next night was his own show, and he was nervous. He didn’t always perform well in front of an audience, and. _Eliot_ was going to be there watching him, judging him. Even though he had been promised a celebratory party afterwards, no matter how he did, Quentin couldn’t help being nervous. For some reason, _this_ performance mattered.

Backstage, he lost count of how many times he had wiped his hands against his jeans, hoping to get rid of the evidence of his nerves. When his name was announced, he took a deep breath and grabbed his guitar and went on stage, letting his hair fall half into his face so he wouldn’t have to face the audience as such. He took his seat on the lone stool in front of the microphone, settling himself comfortably.

“Hi. Um, hello. I’m Quentin, and I’ve decided to cover a song by Taylor Swift, because. Well, her music means a lot to me and um,” he stops short at the few chuckles in the audience, flushing again. He could just imagine Penny rolling his eyes, if he was here. He clears his throat and continues as best he could, “Well, she has a talent for letting her music speak for her and I guess. That’s what I hope to achieve. Some day. Maybe.” He clears his throat again and delicately places his fingers on the neck of the guitar.

The first few plucks of the strings were a bit stiff, but the more he continued playing, the more he forgot he was in front of an audience and he felt at home, like the only ones he was singing for were Julia and his dad.

“ _Green was the colour of the grass_

_Where I used to read at Centennial Park._

_I used to think I would meet somebody there…_ ”

Halfway through the song, Quentin remembered where he was and peered shyly into the audience to try and gauge their reactions. Most of them seemed to be enjoying his cover, a few others looked indifferent. Ducking his head, Q ran his eyes over the front row, looking for the people who mattered most to him in New York. Catching his eyes, Julia gave him a happy thumbs up, letting him know he was doing great. He gave a bashful grin before his eyes inevitably swept over to Eliot, who was… Giving him that _soft_ look again. He quickly averted his gaze before he forgot his next lines, but he couldn’t help glancing back again as he began to come to the end of the song.

“ _And isn’t it just so pretty to think_

_All along there was some_

_Invisible string,_

_Tying you to me?_ ”

He couldn’t help staring at Eliot as he finished the song. He had originally wanted to cover a different Swift song but… ‘invisible string’ was currently how he felt about Brakebills, and the people in it – no, he _was not_ thinking of any particular person, brain, shut up – and. Didn’t he just say he wanted to use his music to speak for him? So here he was. Just finishing a song, that could or could not be interpreted as him singing it _for_ a specific someone. As the last of his strumming petered out, Quentin cleared his throat and flicked his eyes to the audience, catching Eliot’s hazel ones once again. He did a double take when he caught that dark look again, losing his train of thought.

“So, um, yeah, that’s. That’s all,” he managed to get out, before he stumbled off the stage, his hands shaking.

They were still shaking ten minutes later when he was making his way back out into the lobby, his guitar case strung across his back, searching for – ah. There they were. Eliot’s height had an advantage during events like these; it was a lot easier to pick him out against the crowd because he was at least a head taller than everyone else. Carefully picking his way across the mingling people, Quentin silently sidled up to Eliot’s side, giving a small smile as Eliot automatically curled his arm around his shoulder without breaking away from the conversation.

When there was a break in the conversation, Julia turned to Quentin with a grin, “Q! You were great, as always of course.”

Quentin ducked his head self-consciously, prompting Eliot to pull him into his side. “Of course he was great, and now we’re going to celebrate! To the Cottage!”

All four of them filed out of the lobby of the Music Building into the cold night, Julia falling into step beside Q as they followed Eliot and Margo. “So,” she started, giving him a nudge with her elbow. “You and Eliot, huh?”

Quentin choked on air, almost tripping over his feet as he spluttered, “I- we’re not- we’re friends!” He flushed as Eliot and Margo paused to turn back to them questioningly, only moving forward again when he waved at them in a ‘we’re fine’ gesture. “Julia!” he hissed, leaning in close so the pair in front wouldn’t overhear. He ignored the shit-eating grin he was given by his best friend.

“Q, don’t deny it, you were basically eye fucking each other during your cover,” she arched a brow at him as he made to protest again. “You really should talk to him, you know. Lay it all out.”

“Oh yeah, and have him completely reject me and ruin our friendship? Yeah, no thanks.”

“No Q, I’m serious. I guarantee he likes you as much as you like him.”

“No he doesn’t, Jules. A guy like _Eliot_ would never –”

“ _Don’t_ even finish that sentence.” Julia cuts in, giving him a sharp look and effectively shutting him up. “Q, if he doesn’t like you, then he’s more of an idiot than I thought.” She finishes firmly.

Quentin glances at Eliot, focusing on his profile as he talked to Margo in the half light of the street lamps. _God, he really was beautiful_. _And hot, of course._ He jerks his gaze back to Julia before he was caught staring, only to be met with Julia’s knowing look. “I’ll think about it,” he mutters, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Now shut up.”

At the Cottage, it is revealed that Josh, a third year musical theatre kid, had been in charge of the party until Eliot and Margo’s return. On seeing them arrive, he steps out from behind the bar, allowing Eliot to take his place after hanging up his coat and scarf. Quentin can’t take his eyes off Eliot’s hands as he artfully flips glasses and bottles, expertly mixing drinks for everyone. He slides a peach coloured cocktail across the bar to Q, who grabs it before it can slide off the other side. He catches Eliot watching him take an experimental sip, smiling as the taste of peach burst along his tongue, with a hint of plum. He mouths a ‘thank you’ over the music, which Margo had turned up, and tries to suppress the blush threatening to surge up when Eliot gives a radiant, pleased smile before having his attention taken away by someone else stepping up for a drink.

He finds Julia talking to Kady, her roommate, and joins in their conversation about their showcases. Kady was also a Music kid, like Q, so they actually had a lot more in common than he had originally thought. Her showcase was in a couple days though, and she was still in her practise stage. Penny later joined them, with a roll of his eyes at the sight of Q, but as the night went on, he seemed to loosen up a bit. On the other hand, Q seemed to be getting drunker and drunker. He felt like he could really relax now that his showcase was over; the next one was the big Winter one, but that wasn’t until December. Plenty of time for him to figure out what he was going to do.

At some point, Margo and Eliot had joined their group, probably after they had made their rounds as hosts. Q distantly caught himself feeling thrilled when Eliot chose to sit beside him on the couch, despite there being a space next to Kady. He ignored Julia, choosing to bask in his drunkenness and the heady feeling of having _Eliot’s_ attention.

He was pleasantly surprised when he was approached at one point by an older Music student – _Pepper? Poppet? Something like that_ – who complimented him on his cover and offered to be his mentor. Before he could reply, a hand fell on the back of his neck, almost startling his drink out of his hand, as Eliot sweetly said, “This one’s taken.” Q lifted his wide eyes to Eliot, absently noting that though he had not unkindly claimed him very publicly – _sweet baby Jesus, calm down Coldwater_ – his hazel eyes contained a hard glint to them. He hastily took a sip of his drink, gulping away his sudden flare of arousal, and caught Julia’s eyes across the table. She lifted her brows in an ‘I told you so’ sign, to which he frowned back at her to _drop it already, God, Julia_. She gave a shrug and turned back to Alice, a Game Design student she had met a week back.

Quentin shifted in his seat, trying to tune back into the conversation on his side of the table, but suddenly finding it very difficult when he realised Eliot’s hand was still on his neck _. Fucking hell._ He abruptly stood, all but slamming his drink down onto the table and drawing the group’s eyes to him. “Um, toilet. Toilet break!” he squeaked, trying to shuffle past Josh and hoping his face (or something else) didn’t give him away.

He slipped out into the back, taking a deep breath of fresh air as he lit a cigarette. The occasion definitely called for it. _Get it together, Q_. He took a few drags in silence, staring up at the stars as he tried to sober up a bit. He ignored the sound of the door sliding open, thinking it was someone having the same idea as him and coming out for a smoke.

“Q?”

_Of course._ It had to be the person he was trying to keep his distance from. Maybe… Maybe he could talk to him _now_ , and if it went disastrously, he could just blame it on the alcohol tomorrow morning? He took another drag before stubbing the cigarette out and flicking it into the trash, slowly turning to lean against the low wall as he did so.

“Hey El,” he tries to say casually. His voice still comes out a bit high going by the odd look Eliot throws at him, but he smiles anyway.

Eliot joins him at the wall, lighting his own cigarette and taking a drag before offering it to Quentin. _Oh what the hell, may as well, huh?_ He takes the cigarette and inhales, keeping eye contact with Eliot who draws in a breath before exhaling slowly. He takes a step closer to Q just like he did a few weeks ago at their first meeting, his eyes asking for permission. Throwing all caution to the wind, Quentin gives a nod and before he knows it, Eliot has dragged him in and is kissing him heatedly on the lips. He lets out a whimper as a hand slides up his neck to cup his face before wrapping around the back of it, squeezing gently, as Eliot’s other hand rests on his hip to draw him closer.

And Quentin… He felt like a drowning man who had taken his first breath again. That’s what kissing Eliot felt like; he felt _alive_ , but God knows how happy Quentin would be to just drown in him. His mind was reeling with _EliotEliotEliot_ , and it was all he could do to just hold onto his collar and let himself be taken on the ride. A moment – _a minute, an hour, an eternity_ – later, Eliot pulled away to rest his forehead against Q’s, a gentle smile on his lips. “Breathe, Q,” he says fondly. Quentin inhales sharply, still dazed from the kiss and drunk on the feeling. He blinks a few times to clear his vision before grinning and stealing another kiss. “Upstairs?”

A smirk slowly spreads across Eliot’s face, his gaze turning dark and heavy. “Upstairs,” he confirms, lacing his hand with Q’s and pulling him back inside. The party is still in full swing, and a quick glance around shows Q that his friends were still preoccupied with drinking and being social. They slip upstairs, giggling and stealing kisses from each other like a couple of love-drunk teenagers (Q’s brain briefly freezes at that, before Eliot is turning and kissing him against the bannister and scattering whatever thought he had before he could process it). Getting to Eliot’s room felt like an eternity, but as soon as his door was closed, Quentin was pushed up against it with a gasp that Eliot was there to swallow down.

“Fuck, El… Gotta –” he went to unbutton Eliot’s shirt, but his wrists were grabbed and pinned above his head. He looked up at Eliot towering over him, his pupils blown wide with a sudden _need_ he hadn’t even known he had until that moment.

“Shit Q, you’re –” Eliot leaned in to place a kiss on his lips, “– so _fucking_ gorgeous –” another kiss, “– need you –”

“– You have me,” Quentin gasps out, straining against Eliot’s hold on his wrists. _So fucking hot_. “Please El, you’ve had me since the first fucking meeting.”

Eliot let out a groan as he released Q’s wrists to start undressing him, Quentin frantically reaching out to do the same. They fell into bed together, all limbs and lips and _skinskinskin_. Sweet Jesus, Q didn’t think he had ever felt this strong a desire for anyone else before. He’d be happy to drown in this feeling, in _Eliot_ , to bask in the knowledge that _he_ was the one Eliot wanted, had chosen, to be intimate with. _EliotEliotEliot_.

He doesn’t think he could ever get tired of saying his name.

* * *

Quentin blearily blinked awake, throwing an arm across his eyes to block out the sun’s rays. Fuck, did he not close the curtains last night? His head was pounding; what happened last night? He briefly remembered his showcase, a party. Giving a quiet groan, he turned his head to the left in search of his alarm clock which – was not there. Blinking in confusion at the empty space next to him where his bedside table usually was, he thought _what the fuck?_

All of a sudden, a rush of memories slammed into him; the offer to be his mentor, a hand on his neck, _kissing Eliot_. Fuck. Hastily turning his head, quick enough to give him whiplash, Quentin came face to face with a still sleeping Eliot. _Fucking fuck_. He was beautiful even when asleep. God, life was so unfair. His curls were all rumpled, and his face was all soft and peaceful. He was a literal angel. A quick glance down the bed also told Quentin that sometime, during the night, Eliot had thrown an arm across his waist and – yep. They were both naked.

Anxiety crashed over him; would this ruin their friendship? Had they both been too drunk last night to truly consider the consequences? Was this a one night stand? Did Eliot only want sex from him? Would Eliot want a relationship with _him_ , of all people? Did he give too much of himself away last night? ( _A vague memory of “you’ve had me since the first fucking meeting” flits across his mind, Jesus bloody Christ on a bike._ )

“Stop thinking so loud,” a voice mumbles, startling Quentin out of his almost-panic attack.

He jerks his head back up to Eliot, whose eyes are still closed but a small grin is on his face anyway.

“I –” he clears his throat to get rid of the squeakiness before continuing, “I’m not thinking. Nope. Not at all.”

Eliot slowly opens his eyes, amusement highlighting the golden flecks in them that stole Quentin’s breath away. Shit, how was he supposed to be _able_ to think with such an attractive man looking at him like that? He swallows nervously before rolling onto his side, careful not to dislodge Eliot’s arm from his waist.

“What are… Are we… What are we?” He asks hesitantly, dropping his eyes to Eliot’s chin, unsure if he would be able to take rejection this late in the game (he wouldn’t be able to).

His heartbeat feels loud in the silence before Eliot’s arm moves from his waist, causing a sinking feeling. Before he could do anything else though, Eliot is tilting his face up and kissing him tenderly, his thumb running back and forth across Quentin’s cheek. When they pull apart, Quentin is ninety-nine percent sure he has died and gone to heaven.

“Breathe, Q,” Eliot says with a quiet laugh, prompting red to rise in Quentin’s face as he sucks in a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding. Eliot hasn’t stopped stroking his cheek. “Quentin. Q. Would you like to go on a date with me?”

A grin spreads across his face and he felt drunk again, drunk on the heady feeling that he had somehow managed to bag _the most attractive person_ to ever walk Brakebills. Hell, the Earth. “Yeah. Yes. I’d really like that.”

Eliot’s answering smile is radiant as he leans in for another kiss.

* * *

For their first date, Eliot took him to his favourite café. Though it was busy, the place was cozy; not too small, but not too large. They took a table by the window so they could observe the street as they talked. Quentin found out that this place was Eliot’s favourite because it was where he had met Margo; coming into Brakebills, Eliot had not been in the best of places. A wide eyed young adult, almost overwhelmed with drinks and drugs trying to find himself, had bumped straight into Margo and spilled her coffee all down her new and expensive dress. She had chewed him out, made him buy her a new coffee, and then promptly told him that he could repay her for the dry cleaning by helping her practise lines for her showcase. Not having any money due to all but being disowned, Eliot readily agreed. She had also added a clause to her deal – Eliot was to go into rehab. Margo had seen through him since Day One, and had saved his life.

Quentin thought that was beautiful. The fact that Eliot, hurt and running from his past, had met someone so stunning and who had cared enough to help him at his lowest, and now felt safe enough to also share it with Quentin – he was going to make sure Eliot would never feel like that again, and resolved to show that he would never break that trust.

In return, Quentin told Eliot about his own demons; about his depression, his thoughts on suicide, his friendship with Julia. The fact that Julia was Quentin’s rock, his very own version of Margo. He laid it all out so no surprises would be sprung on them later. The only things Quentin was sure of in his life were Julia, his bisexuality, his love for fantasy and card tricks, and Eliot. Everything else made Quentin feel like he was perpetually walking along a precipice, waiting for his next bad fall, teetering on the edge. Never truly living until… Until he had met Eliot. Eliot, who had struck him with awe and wonder that first day. Eliot, who had automatically supported him and actively wanted to be his friend. Eliot, who made his heart race and brightened his day just by _talking_ to him, asking him how he was, how his day had gone (Julia asking wasn’t the same thing; they had been friends forever, knew each other like the back of their hands. Sometimes she didn’t even need to ask). Eliot, who never pushed Quentin to do something he was truly uncomfortable with. Eliot, who was content to sit with Quentin and do nothing all day but read or watch Netflix. Quentin had taken his first breath in years the day he had met Eliot, and hadn’t even realised it yet until their first kiss.

Eliot had taken his hand and given him a sweet kiss, thanking him for trusting him enough to tell him everything. In reply, Quentin had told him that he deserved the world, and he was sorry that all he could give him was his trust. In that moment, Quentin had seen a side of Eliot he hadn’t seen before – a shy, self-conscious side that threatened to liquefy Quentin’s insides.

Quentin hadn’t told him everything though. He hadn’t told him he was c _ompletely gone_ on Eliot Waugh.

* * *

For their second date, Quentin took them on a picnic in Central Park, near Bow Bridge. He had made Julia help him with the sandwiches and make edible snacks while also packing Eliot’s favourite wine (that he had to ask Margo about). A lovely picnic on a sunny autumn day with staring out over the river as they fed each other sliced fruit and forkfuls of cake.

They didn’t talk about anything too heavy this time; conversation flowed between them – _oh, how easy it was to talk to Eliot_ – in between bouts of banter and teasing. They sipped on the wine as they sprawled on the blanket Quentin had laid out, leaning into each other, getting tipsy on each other’s kisses just when the sun started to set. Quentin watched in wonder as Eliot was bathed in the golden light of sunset, turning his curls to a light brown and making his eyes sparkle. He fumbled to get his phone out, wanting a photo of Eliot as he stared out at the river, the bridge in the background. God, he was beautiful and _all Quentin’s_. He smiled at the result of the photo; Eliot was bathed in gold, ethereal in his unawareness of Quentin taking a photo of him. Eliot truly could have gone into modelling, but Quentin was selfishly glad that he hadn’t. He wouldn’t have met him otherwise, and Eliot wouldn’t be so interested in someone as plain and boring as him if he lived such a glamorous life.

Quentin leaned in and placed a kiss on Eliot’s cheek, surprising him out of his thoughts. He turned to look at Quentin who smiled and took his hand, intertwining their fingers. “Penny for your thoughts?” he whispers.

Eliot gave him that slow, sweet smile and pulled him into his side in that way he likes, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and all but burying his face into Quentin’s hair. “Mm…” he hums, kissing the top of Quentin’s head. “Just thinking of you.”

“Oh?”

“How gorgeous you are…” a kiss to his temple, “how sweet for me you are…” a light nip at his earlobe, making him suck in a breath, “how adorably _sexy_ you are…”

Quentin squirmed as Eliot started kissing down his neck, holding tightly to Eliot’s free hand. “El-Eliot…” he gasped. “We’re… Ah… We’re still in public.”

“Mhmm…”

All of a sudden, Eliot started tickling his sides, in the places he knew that would make Quentin start laughing uncontrollably, trying to twist away from his prodding fingers.

“El! El, stop! I yield, I yield!”

It took a few more seconds of uncontainable giggles before Quentin’s body realised it wasn’t being tickled anymore, leaving Quentin gasping for breath on his back, his hair fanned out around his head. Eliot was leaning back on one hand, looking down at him affectionately. They stared at each other for a long moment, grins on their faces as they drank in the sight of the other, until Eliot broke it by leaning down for a languid kiss.

They stayed laying on that blanket in Central Park until they got cold, relishing in the other’s presence.

* * *

Dating Eliot was like walking through a dream. It made Quentin light, floaty, like he was walking on clouds. He couldn’t seem to stop the soft smiles, the lingering touches, the tender kisses. The heat he felt whenever Eliot stared at him in that certain _way_ , the way that made Quentin melt against him as they stripped, longing for skin on skin. _Heat_ when Eliot would gently manhandle him this way or that, or pin his hips down so he couldn’t move as he was taken apart piece by piece and then put back together so delicately. The satisfying afterglow of being together in bed, whispering to each other about everything and nothing. Quentin was the happiest he has ever remembered being in a long, long time.

Towards the end of November, when fiery golden leaves started falling from trees in earnest and the students of Brakebills were becoming more stressed with the Winter showcase looming near, Quentin and Eliot fell apart.

It happened during a party at the Cottage. The whole group had been there; Alice, whom Quentin had inexplicably become friends with, Margo, Julia, Penny, Kady, Josh, and Fen, who was training to be an opera singer. Eliot was manning the bar as always, making it very difficult for Quentin to focus on anything but Eliot’s hands. However, someone had mentioned card tricks, and Quentin swivelled back to the conversation, interested. Card tricks was something he could do. Card tricks was something he could do with one hand, blindfolded. Hell, it was one thing he could do in his sleep.

There was scepticism all around ( _“Seriously? Coldwater can do card tricks?”_ _Penny had said, disbelievingly_ ), until someone – Julia, he thinks – dug out a deck. For the next half an hour, Quentin had unwittingly gathered the attention of half the party showing off his skills and favourite tricks. They even got a few rounds of poker in, everyone wanting a shot at dislodging him from his reigning champion title (though he had only ever really played against his father, Julia and James, but still). Eventually, tired from all the attention and drunk enough to realise he wouldn’t be able to keep shuffling the cards deftly, Quentin left for the patio for a small break and social recharge.

He stared up at the night sky with a cigarette in hand – he’ll stop one day, he promises – getting invested in trying to find the constellations he knew that he didn’t hear the door sliding open and footsteps approaching him.

“Wow, didn’t know you had it in you, Coldwater,” a voice says, impressed.

Glancing back to take in Eliot, Quentin gave a small shrug as he turned and leaned against the low wall. A flashback of his first party here plays in his mind, and he smiles at the memory. Eliot steps up beside him, handing him another drink. Quentin takes a sip, smiling at the familiar burst of taste. “Peaches and plums again?” he asks.

“You like it, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he replies immediately, reassuringly.

“When I first met you, you seemed like a peach guy. And when I was making you that drink, at your first party, I thought ‘why not add in some plums?’ They’re two fruits you think won’t mix at all, but they do. They work.”

“ _We_ work.”

Eliot turned to look at him, slightly confused. “Huh?”

“If I’m the peach guy, then you’re the plum. We work. Peaches and plums. That’s how we know. Who gets that kind of proof of concept?” And okay, Quentin may just be a little bit – _a whole lot_ – drunker than he realised, because he doesn’t even understand what he’s just said.

Eliot is looking at him with a mix of fondness and bafflement, but he leans in for a kiss anyway. “Okay Q, think that’s your last drink of the night,” he says with a laugh, eyes bright.

“El, no –” he sets his glass on the wall, swallows, starts again. “What I – I’m trying to say that I love you.”

Silence stretches out between them. One second, then two, then three… Eliot takes a step back, and then another. A closed look shutters across his face. The empty space growing between them weighs heavily, sobering Quentin.

“Q, come on,” Eliot starts carefully, keeping the distance between them. Quentin swears he hears a crack somewhere, loud in the pause that follows. “I love you, but you have to know that that’s not me.” _I love you, but only as a friend, not romantically._

Eliot doesn’t love him. _Eliot doesn’t love him like he loves Eliot_.

“Okay, I… Okay.” Quentin can’t look at him, can’t bear to look at the man he’s just given his heart to and who doesn’t want it. “Sorry, I…” he trails off, not knowing what else to say. He brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, subtly brushes at his eyes to check he’s not crying. He isn’t, not yet, but he wants to.

They stand for a few seconds in silence before Eliot clears his throat. “Well, I… I’ll go, then. Let you… Let you finish your drink.”

When Quentin doesn’t reply, Eliot walks off, his steps steady and measured, and is back inside within seconds. Back to the party like nothing had happened. When he’s gone, Quentin takes in a choppy breath, tilting his head back until he’s staring up at the sky again. _The tears won’t fall this way_.

He stays like that, staring unseeingly at the stars until his neck hurts and he has to slowly lower his head to stretch it out. When he doesn’t feel like he’s going to immediately fall apart, he goes back inside, into the warmth. He doesn’t say goodnight to his friends, doesn’t think he has the energy. He sluggishly makes his way upstairs instead, planning to go to bed, but stops short. Realises he’s gone to Eliot’s door on autopilot – he hasn’t slept in his own room since September, since his s _howcase_. Taking uneven breaths, he steels himself to turn his back on Eliot’s room – _their room_ – and slips into his own one down the hall. He slumps into bed, not even bothering to change out of his clothes, and buries himself under the duvet in a tight ball.

Quentin realises the crack he had heard earlier was his entire life falling apart, shattering into tiny pieces with no one to help him pick them up. He buries his face into his pillow and finally, _finally_ lets his tears flow.

Downstairs, a drink glass full of peaches and plums sits alone, untouched.

* * *

Quentin could feel himself spiralling.

He struggled to get out of bed in the mornings, he struggled to care about classes. He forgets to eat, to drink, to even shower. He absently notes that Julia is worried about him, knows that sometimes she’s the one coaxing him out of bed and into the shower. He knows he should be angry, at himself, at Eliot, at the whole situation. Instead, he just feels numb, empty, his heartbeat the only constant in the silence of his dark room.

He starts camping out in Julia’s room in the Film Studies building; he couldn’t bear the thought of continuing to stay in the Cottage, w _ith Eliot_ , with Margo, who’s been staring at him every time she sees him. He just couldn’t do it.

He lost track of time like this, but when Julia started gently wheedling him about helping her with her next short film for the Winter showcase, he knew he was in trouble. He had forgotten about the showcase in all his mental turmoil. _Shit_. Reluctantly, he started getting out of bed in the mornings to help Julia. She wanted him to sing a cover that she was going to overlay with her film. She described to him what kind of song she was looking for; it had to be a perfect match for what she was trying to portray. When she described it to him, he had bitterly laughed and said, “I know a few songs like that.”

It took a long few weeks, but Quentin began to come out of his spiral, and it was all thanks to Julia. Again. _She was an absolute goddess and deserved more than what he could give her_. He spent all his time in those next weeks with Julia and her mentor Pete, recording his cover for Julia and practising for his own showcase (which he was so behind on and his entire set was hurriedly put together, _fuck you Eliot_ ).

But by the time the Winter showcase came around, Quentin had – _almost_ – completely forgotten about Eliot Waugh. Who needed a relationship anyway when they had an important event coming up that could help them along in their career? Not Quentin, that’s who. This showcase was going to introduce all the students to possible future employers; mentors from outside the university (alumni or prominent people in their field of art) would be considering first and second years to take under their wing. If you are chosen, you already have a shoe in in your industry. The Spring showcase, on the other hand, was an end-of-year show, unless you were a third or fourth year – in which case, the Spring showcase was when you’d be considered for internships or placements.

No, Quentin didn’t have time to think about anything else.

* * *

Quentin was alone in Julia’s room, playing chords and making slight adjustments to his music sheets, when the door slammed open causing all his papers to fly off his stand and flutter to the floor.

“What _the fuck_ –” he turned to the door, eyes widening at the person standing in the doorway. “– _Margo_?” he finishes incredulously.

Margo struts in imperiously and plants herself in front of him, hands on her hips. She takes in his form, slightly hunched over his guitar, his scattered music sheets on the floor, his hair in a small bun to keep off his face while he worked. She purses her lips before meeting his wide eyes.

“You’re coming with me.”

“What? No, I’m not, _I’m busy_.”

“Looks to me like you need a break,” she says, pointedly looking at his music sheets again. “Now leave your guitar and come with me.”

She takes the guitar out of his hands and places it on its stand gently before grabbing his wrist and hauling him up. “ _Margo!_ ” he protests. Predictably, she ignores him, marching him out of the building and across campus.

When he catches sight of the building she’s frog marching him to (the Dance Theatre, _fuck_ ), he really starts struggling against her hold.

“ _Margo_ , stop it, I have to work, my showcase is tomorrow!”

“Yes, and Eliot’s is tonight. Which _you_ are going to watch.”

“No, I’m not.” He says, frustrated. “He _ditched_ me at that party, _dumped_ me without actually saying it. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me like that, so why should I?”

She stops at the door of the theatre and spins on him, jabbing him in the chest. “Because _he’s_ an idiot. _You’re_ an idiot. Jesus fucking Christ, you’re both idiots!” She throws her arms up in frustration. “Now go in there and take your goddamn seat, or so help me God…”

“ _Ow_ ,” Quentin scowls in reply, rubbing at the point in his chest where she had jabbed him. “Fine, okay? Fine! I’ll watch his stupid show, and then I’m gone. I don’t even know why you want me to see it, I’m not exactly friends with him anymore, am I.”

Margo hands him a ticket and then crosses her arms in silence, just watching him walk into the building like a security guard. Probably making sure he would actually go into the theatre. With one last glance back at her, Quentin walks through the doors to the main auditorium, immediately tucking his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders at the sight of all the people already sitting there. He checks his ticket (front row seats, _of course_ ) and slumps into his seat, trying to make himself as small as possible.

It’s another ten minutes before the lights go down, and the dance showcase starts. Quentin watches with mild interest as each dancer introduced themselves and their piece before performing. He watches as hip hop, and tap, and contemporary dances across the stage in front of him. He’d never really been exposed to many dance styles before, but they all moved with a certain grace, even hip hop. They were all fluid and sure in their movements in a way Quentin could never be. He envied that sometimes.

He claps politely with the rest of the audience, but then immediately hunkers down into his seat again when a very familiar form walks onto the side of the stage, where the microphone is situated. He looks… Well, he doesn’t look his best, not like his usual; there are dark rings under his eyes, and he looks _so tired_ and _withdrawn_ that for a split second, Quentin worries if he’s been sleeping or eating properly. Then he remembers the spiral he had been pushed on like a shock of cold water being poured on him, and he shoves that thought away (possibly to be re-examined at a later date).

“My name is Eliot Waugh, and my piece is about… Well, it’s about mending shattered things. It represents all the things you can and may hold, now or in your future, that have the potential to shatter at the slightest movement, the wrong word. But most of all, it also represents repairing those things that you shattered. The things you do to repair what you broke may take small steps, but in time, there is hope that you can recover what you lost. I call it Minor Mending. Thank you for your time.” He bows out back to the wings of the stage, and there’s a couple minutes of anticipation before the curtains are pulled back, and Eliot’s dance begins.

It’s beautiful. _He’s_ beautiful. Quentin can’t take his eyes off him as he watches, entranced by the beauty and elegance of Eliot dancing ballet. He watches as Eliot completes a complicated looking sequence of steps, a series of spins that makes even Quentin feel dizzy, and leaps so high and perfect that he didn’t even have words to describe them. He was all poised extensions and straight lines, yet delicate and light on his feet. Quentin was amazed. He could see in Eliot’s face that he was lost in the music, of the rise and fall of the strings, the tempo, the rhythm. It truly did tell a flawless story – a story of something gained and lost, so fragile that it broke at the slightest force. A hopeful story about picking up the pieces of whatever was broken, and piecing them back together bit by bit.

Quentin swallowed down the lump in his throat as Eliot finished, rising gracefully from his kneeling position on the stage to take his bow. As he lifts his head, his eyes catch on to Quentin there in the front low, his eyes widening slightly as his only acknowledgment. Quentin waits as he takes another bow before walking off stage to the applause, before he’s bolting out of his seat and running for the doors.

He’s leaning over against the wall of the building, heaving big gasping breaths in the attempt to stop his tears, when he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. Turning his head slightly, he sees Margo looking at him with concern.

“Q?”

“Margo,” he huffs out. “Margo, he doesn’t love me. I told him how I felt, and he _doesn’t return it_.” He manages to get out, in between his panicky breaths.

“Oh Q,” she sighs, pulling him in for a hug. “El has some character defects that he’s working on.”

Quentin chooses to bury his head in her hair instead of replying, finally feeling his tears fall. Margo surprisingly lets him cry it out on her shoulder, rubbing his back in comfort until he eventually hiccups to a stop. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was overdue a cry about this whole mess – he hadn’t cried since that first night, the night of the party. Taking a small step back, he rubs at his eyes, offering Margo an apologetic smile.

“I don’t understand what your angle is, but thank you. I needed that.”

“I know,” she replies with a grin, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Now, let me walk you back to your… Room.”

In companionable silence, they walk back to the Film building.

* * *

Quentin was sweating. He kept having to wipe his hands on his trousers to make sure they were dry so he wouldn’t lose his grip on his guitar. He was shaking, feeling slightly sick. God, this was the most nervous he’s been since… _Since he started dating Eliot_.

Julia had just left his side to take her seat for the showcase, which was due to start in a few minutes. Quentin doesn’t know why he’s such a nervous wreck – he wasn’t even half as nervous as this during his entrance exam and audition. He’d made a couple of last minute changes to his set last night, so he’d been up quite late practising. In fact, thinking it over, staying up late and getting practically no sleep was probably a major factor in his anxiety tonight.

Before he knows it, Quentin is walking onstage, his legs feeling like jelly and his guitar in a white-knuckled grip. Just like his first showcase, he sits awkwardly on the stool in centre stage, letting the strands of hair he couldn’t tie back fall into his face. He clears his throat and manages to introduce himself and his set with only minor rambling. He spots Julia in the crowd giving him a wide, encouraging smile with her thumbs up. He ducks his head, smiling, and starts strumming.

He makes it halfway through his set before he spots them; Margo, with her arm linked through Eliot’s as if she was making sure he wouldn’t run away. Julia was on his other side, still watching him. He almost chokes on his sip of water, coughing lightly away from the microphone so it wouldn’t carry across the whole theatre. _Why was he here?_ He blinks as he gives his head a small shake, trying to get rid of the shock. _Focus, Coldwater_.

Looking back down at his guitar, he flexes his hands, shaking out the cramps before settling back into position again. He takes a deep breath and starts up again, lightly strumming.

“ _I walked through the door with you,_

_The air was cold._

_But something ‘bout it felt like home somehow,_

_And I left my scarf there at your sister’s house,_

_And you’ve still got it in your drawer,_

_Even now…_ ”

He closes his eyes, allows himself to feel the music, the pain, the acceptance. He adds an extra little guitar riff improvisation, head bopping, as he opens his eyes and meets the hazel ones of Eliot.

“ _Maybe we got lost in translation,_

_Maybe I asked for too much,_

_But maybe this thing was a masterpiece_

_‘Til you tore it all up._

_Running scared, I was there, I remember it_

_All too well…”_

He continues to gaze at Eliot, emboldened by the fact that Eliot also couldn’t seem to look away from him either. He gives a small, sad smile – a quirk of the lips, really – as he begins to wind down the song, the sound of the guitar going soft. He barely pauses before immediately going into the next song.

“ _I’m going under and this time,_

_I fear there’s no one to save me._

_This all or nothing really got a way of driving me crazy._

_I need somebody to hear,_

_Somebody to know,_

_Somebody to have,_

_Somebody to hold._

_It’s easy to say, but it’s never the same,_

_I guess I kinda liked the way you numbed all the pain…”_

Feeling tears beginning to rise up again, Quentin breaks eye contact to look back down at his guitar, focussing on the way his fingers moved across the fret board, the vibration of the guitar as he strummed. His trusty guitar, which had seen him through his good and bad times. It had been there for him all those times Julia couldn’t be. It was his safe space, his comfort. And he knew it would still be there until it was falling apart and he would need a new one. It was why music was so important to him – even when it felt like his world was falling apart, that he was going to splinter into pieces that could never be fixed, music was there to hold him together.

He hums along with his strumming as the song comes to an end. He felt raw inside – exposed, vulnerable. He had made changes to his set last night, wanting to get all his frustrations and feelings out. He wasn’t very good with talking about his feelings, but singing and listening to music that he could relate to? That he could do. What he hadn’t counted on was Eliot being here tonight, to hear it all. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as he slowly but surely reaches the end of his set. As soon as he’s finished, he bolts off the stage and puts his guitar in its case as carefully but as quickly as he could. Before Julia, or Margo with Eliot, could make it backstage, he’s slipping out the back door and scurrying back to Julia’s room.

For all his singing back there, he had essentially told Eliot that the set was for him, and he wasn’t ready to face him again. No, not if he was going to be rejected again. He wouldn’t be able to handle another talk like that. At least this way, Eliot would know, and he won’t have to talk to him anymore. He can move on. Winter break started after this week, and he’d go home to recuperate, and be back in the new year like a new person. Or well, the same person, but with a fresh mind. He flops into his makeshift bed on Julia’s floor and instantly falls asleep out of exhaustion.

He couldn’t wait to go home.

* * *

Quentin smiled as he got off the bus with Julia and was immediately engulfed in a hug by his dad. He relaxed in his hold; this he could do. This was familiar and safe. No matter what he did, or how much he fucked up, his dad was always there to talk him through it, supporting him.

He couldn’t ask for a better father really, especially knowing how Eliot’s – No. No, he was not going there.

Setting his mouth in a firm line, he shook his head to clear his thoughts. He was here to enjoy winter break, to spend time with Julia and his dad for Christmas and New Year’s. And he was going to enjoy every damn minute of it. They were going to eat and drink their fill, they were going to tell his dad all about Brakebills and invite him to the Spring showcase, or record their performances for him if he couldn’t make it up on the day. And they were absolutely not going to be talking about Eliot.

Yeah, right.

That very night, his dad caught him in the living room in the middle of the night, nursing a mug of hot chocolate. “Hey Curly Q,” he greets quietly, smiling as he settles into the space next to him with his own cup of hot drink.

“Hey dad,” he replies, just as quietly.

“Why’re you still up, kid?”

“Oh, you know me. Just can’t sleep in a new bed on the first night,” he teases lightly, sliding his dad a small smile.

His dad hums, sipping his drink for a few moments. “So, you’re not moping because of some guy?” he eventually asks cautiously.

“No.” There’s a pause, a sigh, then, “Julia talked to you?”

“Mm… She might have mentioned something.”

Quentin takes a large gulp of his drink for something to do, eyeing his dad from the corner of his eye. Finally, he turns to face him, a smile on his lips and a lie quick on his tongue, which dies just as quickly when he sees the look his dad is giving him. That open, supportive look disarms him and he’s left with the smile frozen on his face. Abruptly, without any warning, Quentin’s smile falls and he starts crying, silent sobs wracking his body as his dad immerses him in his arms, hugging him tight to his chest like he was still a child crying over a skinned knee.

When Quentin finally manages to pull himself together, he tells his dad everything. All of it. About meeting Eliot and crushing on him like some teenage girl, about their first, second, third, and hundredth dates; the parties, the late night talks, _his confession_. And the subsequent fall out, Eliot’s dance, his own set list. By the time he’s let it all out, he feels lighter. Lighter than he’s felt in the past month. And his dad, his amazing, generous, _kind_ dad, listens to him talk without judgment or trying to inject advice or admonishments. And that… That brings a fresh wave of tears to Quentin’s eyes – _God, he was such a fuck up, how could his dad be so patient with him?_ – because his dad, like Julia, deserved everything the world could give him, and Quentin couldn’t give him any of it.

He doesn’t know how long he sat there, taking comfort from his dad’s arms, but they both ended up falling asleep on the couch, both of their drinks going cold on the coffee table. But when he woke, he found a blanket had been thrown over the both of them to keep them warm – Julia must have found them in the night and had, like always, taken care of them both.

The thought made him smile.

* * *

Christmas Day dawned the next week, and as per tradition, Julia and Quentin both woke up at the same time to make their usual light Christmas breakfast of omelettes and a glass of wine. It had been their long standing tradition that it was never too early to start drinking, and Quentin’s dad was only too happy to supervise their drinking when they had been underage. It was Christmas after all.

They laughed about their stupid stories at Brakebills the past few months, and then they moved to the couch in the living room, where all three exchanged gifts as a cheesy Christmas film played on the tv in the background. Quentin had gotten Julia a new portable video camera, solely for her to use for filmmaking. He had gotten his dad a rare vinyl record (which had been expensive as fuck, but so so _so_ worth it to see his dad’s eyes light up).

From Julia, he had gotten a new edition of the Fillory books, and a brand new deck of cards that he couldn’t wait to break in for his annual Christmas magic show (no matter how many times he showed the same tricks, Julia and his dad were always excited to see them). His dad had gotten him a ukulele.

His heart filled with warmth as he unwrapped the instrument reverently; though he mainly played guitar, he had owned a ukulele that he would use to mess around with whenever he needed something to fiddle with. He had ended up breaking the one he had before during his Really Bad Months last summer, before Brakebills. He’d felt so guilty about it that he hadn’t been able to buy himself a new one. It was not his proudest moment.

Once presents had been unwrapped and Christmas dinner was put on, they all tumbled back into the living room to drink and watch more tacky Christmas films. Him and Julia started making a game out of it – whenever something predictable happened (like a character being royalty, or the main character ends up bumping into the person who becomes their love interest) they had to take a drink.

God, they were so drunk.

By the time Christmas dinner was being laid out, Quentin and Julia were on a buzz – all giggly, tipsy, and slightly red in the face. Life was great, and he couldn’t even remember why exactly he had been moping the past week. His dad would laugh at their antics every now and then as he brought out the dishes to be laid on the table. They were just sitting down at the table when the door rang, making them all exchange looks. Had they been expecting more guests? But no – the table was laid out for three people, as it had always been.

“Here, I’ll get it. Might be some poor lost soul visiting family,” Quentin laughs, sliding out of his chair.

A poor lost soul indeed.

When Quentin opened the door, he stared for a second, blinking in rapid succession, before slamming the door closed again.

“Q? Who was it?” His dad calls out.

“Uh… N-no one!”

He squints at the door, believing himself to be a lot more drunk than he had realised because it was –

It couldn’t –

There was _just no way_ –

He cautiously cracks the door open again and peeks out, and yep.

Fucking Eliot Waugh.

Fucking _Eliot Waugh_.

_Fucking_ Eliot Waugh.

(Get your goddamn mind out of the gutter, Quentin Coldwater, right the fuck now.)

_Fuck_.

Eliot’s looking at him, bemused but also with that warm look he used to look at him with and _Jesus bloody Christ_ he was definitely not drunk enough for this after all.

“Alright idiots, ovary up and fucking talk, or _so help me God_ , I will drag you both by your cocks ‘til they never see the light of day again.”

Quentin blinks, squinting outside until the petite form of Margo Hanson comes into focus. She is dressed to kill, as always, with one hand on the handle of a hot pink suitcase and the other planted on her hip. He clears his throat for something to do, and then jerkily nods.

“Um, let me just…” He gestures haplessly at the hallway behind him. “I’ll be just a minute.”

And he closes the door on them. Again. _Fuck_. He makes a beeline for the kitchen, grabbing the almost-empty bottle of wine and, on second thought, a glass of water.

“Q?” Julia comes into the kitchen, looking at him with that concern on her face. “Everything okay?”

“Yes. Yeah! Everything’s great! Um. Margo and Eliot are here, would you believe it, so um. I’m going to go deal with them. Crazy right? Start dinner without me!” He lets out a laugh, on the touch of panic and hysteria, as he rushes back to the front door and slips out of it before Julia could get another word in.

“Uh, Margo, just. Um. Just go in, dining room’s on the right. Dinner’s already laid out,” Quentin says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.

She looks between them before her eyes settle on Eliot. Quentin watches them as they have one of their silent conversations, much like how he and Julia communicate when they are not alone in the room. Margo raises a brow at Eliot, who replies by widening his eyes slightly. And then Margo narrows her eyes at him, in which he frowns back. She then cuts her eyes to Quentin and. Well. He looks away from their silent conversation, embarrassed. They were definitely talking about him.

After a couple of minutes, Margo huffs before stalking to the door and opening it. “ _Talk_ , dickwads.” She glares at them before flouncing through the door.

As soon as the door closes, Quentin turns to face Eliot in silence. Eliot, who is staring at Quentin’s shoes, who can’t even look at him. Quentin takes a swig from the bottle, grimacing before downing the rest and then taking a few sips of the water. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be drunk for this conversation or not.

“What are you doing here Eliot?” He finally asks, suddenly tired.

Eliot shoves his hands into his coat pockets and scuffs a shoe against the snow. He takes a deep breath before looking up to Quentin’s face.

“Quentin. Q.” Eliot swallows nervously. He runs a hand through is hair, ruffling his curls. “I want to apologise, first. I hadn’t meant to dismiss your feelings and –”

“– Great. That’s really great Eliot, apology accepted, fan- _fucking_ -tastic. So you thought an apology would fix everything?” He cuts in hotly, tears springing into his eyes. _God, out of all the times to start crying_. He wipes angrily at them.

“What? No! Would you just _fucking listen for once_ ,” Eliot hisses, frustrated.

Quentin glares at Eliot and takes a few gulps of water before waving his glass, indicating for him to continue.

“Look, I. I know I messed up, okay? You went out on a limb and yeah, it was a little crazy, but I knew. I knew it was a moment that truly mattered, and I just snuffed it out.”

Quentin jerks his eyes up to Eliot’s, hardly daring to breathe. Out of all things… He hadn’t expected… What was he saying?

“Q, I’m sorry.” Eliot stares at him earnestly, honestly. “I was afraid and. When I’m afraid, I run away.” He takes a step towards Quentin, hesitantly reaching out as if to draw Quentin in.

“Eliot… What are you saying?” He quietly asks, almost whispering. He didn’t _dare_ to hope.

Eliot bites his lip before taking another step, right into Quentin’s space like he did that very first day in September.

“Peaches and plums, motherfucker. I love you too.”

“ _Eliot,_ ” Quentin breathes, shocked, relieved, _elated_.

He doesn’t know who moved towards who, but in the next moment, they’re kissing, softly, gently, yet fervently. Quentin throws a hand up to tangle in Eliot’s curls, tugging on them lightly, smiling against his lips as he feels a groan working its way out. His other arm wraps around Eliot’s waist, pulling him closer, never wanting to let go. _Jesus_ he had missed this. He had missed all of it; getting to spend time with Eliot, kissing Eliot, the late night conversations and _knowing_ he had somehow gotten the attention of the best man on campus.

“ _Eliot,_ ” he whispers, finally coming up for air. “God, I missed you.”

Eliot rests his forehead against his, looking down into his eyes and taking Quentin’s breath away with the complete, unconditional love he could see in his hazel ones. “I missed you too. Q, I’m sacred. You have no idea how scared I am, of love, of fucking up. But I’ll try because… Because I’m scared of losing you too. Q, I’m standing here now because you make me feel brave. I’m braver, about all of this, because I learned it from you.”

Quentin can’t stop the flush creeping up his face. Him? Make _Eliot_ feel brave? He couldn’t be more wrong. Eliot is the reason Quentin wants to jump in, feet first. Eliot had been a lot of firsts for him, and he wanted El to continue being a lot of his firsts. He had always been comfortable with his bisexuality, which having his dad and Julia helped with that because they had always been supportive. He was more confident in his sexuality and what he wanted from his relationships than most anything else in his life. There was no way _he_ , the King of being a Bisexual Disaster, made _Eliot_ feel brave.

He lets out a laugh, throwing his head back as he wraps his arms around Eliot’s neck, making him smile. “Q, I’m serious. No matter how much of a mess you are in your daily life, you’ve always been sure of what you wanted in your relationships, romantic or otherwise. I could only hope to be like that.”

“Are you kidding me? Like, for real? Eliot, you are the most self-assured person I know, besides Margo. Fuck, when I met you, I didn’t know if I wanted to _be_ you or fuck you.”

Eliot’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline and his eyes light up in delight. Quentin groans, burying his face into his neck. He hadn’t meant to say that. God, he’s just given Eliot a lifetime of blackmail material.

“You’re so fucking cute,” Eliot sighs, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “When I saw you, stumbling all starry-eyed onto campus, I knew. I’m into high-strung nerds, and you _very_ much fit the bill. And then. Your first showcase, Q. _Jesus_ , you playing the guitar broke me. I couldn’t hold back anymore. And… And that _girl_ , that redhead at the party wanting to be your mentor? Fuck that. More like she wanted to bang you.”

Quentin lets out a surprised laugh, shaking his head. “What? No she didn’t,” he protests, giggling at the thought.

“Oh, she totally did. Can’t blame her really,” Eliot teases, tugging on a bit of Quentin’s hair.

“What… Is that why… Is that the reason why you claimed me as your mentee in front of everyone?”

“Mm, yes…” Eliot kisses Quentin’s cheek, then slides his nose across to reach his ear, whispering, “And you liked it. Didn’t you, Q?”

Quentin shivers, biting back a whimper. _Fuck_. So he hadn’t been exactly discreet with his hasty escape that night then. At least, not to Eliot. “I don’t… Don’t know what you’re talking about, Waugh,” he replies, his voice a little bit rougher than he would’ve liked.

“No? I think you do.”

Eliot’s hand slides up his arm and up his neck, going round to the back to tangle his fingers with the hair at Quentin’s nape, squeezing lightly. Quentin’s body melts against him without his permission, setting him off to curse under his breath, a low chuckle in his ear (so he may have a weak spot for a hand on his neck, fine. _Fine_. He can admit that). Eliot kisses him one more time, with a little more heat than the previous one, before taking a small step back.

“I think we should go inside before all the food is gone,” he says lightly, happiness dancing in his eyes.

“Fuck you, Eliot.”

“Oh, I sure hope so,” Eliot purrs in reply, quirking his lips up into a suggestive smirk.

Quentin swallows before picking up the now empty glass from the snow (he had dropped it at some point, probably due to all the kissing) and turning to open the house door. He’s lost sight of the wine bottle, but he’ll find it tomorrow. At some point. He gives Eliot a couple of minutes in the hallway to hang up his coat and scarf before leading him through to the dining room, his other hand still entwined with Eliot’s.

When they walk in, there’s a pause; his dad briefly glances down at their joined hands before meeting his eyes again, a question in them. Quentin clears his throat.

“Um, dad. Meet Eliot. Eliot, meet my dad. We’re uh, we’re dating,” he says shyly.

Eliot’s holding his hand tightly and _God, how could he forget that he might have some issues meeting someone else’s parents?_ But before he could do or say anything more, Eliot steps forward, holding out his left hand with a smile.

“Hello Sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I apologise for us barging in like this, unannounced.” _Bloody hell, Quentin really loves him_.

His dad also smiles in return, a soft, proud one, before standing and taking Eliot’s hand for a shake. “Oh please, just Ted is fine. And don’t be silly, you’re not barging in – the more, the merrier. Have a seat, we saved some food for you both.”

Quentin slowly lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. His dad approved; of him, of Eliot, of them both, and that meant the world to him. He squeezes Eliot’s hand and directs him into the chair next to him. Julia’s looking at him proudly, while Margo rolls her eyes, managing to look both exasperated and relieved. Quentin hides his grin behind his newly filled wine glass. He doesn’t let go of Eliot’s hand through the rest of dinner, and Eliot doesn’t let go of his either.

As far as Christmases went? It was, by far, the best one yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Songs used in this fic:
> 
> invisible string, from folklore by Taylor Swift  
> All Too Well, from Red by Taylor Swift, and  
> Someone You Loved, from Divinely Uninspired To A Hellish Extent by Lewis Capaldi
> 
> I do plan to have a couple of shorter one-shots in this AU (boy, do I have some ideas), so this is certainly not the end of these two idiots! Thanks for reading <3


End file.
